


Beginnings, Evers, Always

by AtlinMerrick



Series: Binary Stars: Techienician [2]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: 31 Days of Porn Challenge 2017, M/M, Sweet happy grumpy moody boys in love and lust and all the delicious things, Techienician, kylux adjacent, sweet boys in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-01 05:04:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10914903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/pseuds/AtlinMerrick
Summary: Porny stories of Techie and Matt fromthese porny prompts. (These stories are set a Star Wars universe where the Concordance held and the Empire and Republic are not at war.)





	1. For Sale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Pretending:_
> 
> It doesn't matter if every eye in the cantina is watching, Techie'll do anything for Matt's eyes. 
> 
> Oh yes, just… _anything._

This is Matthew Kee's fourth assignment planet-side in as many cycles and thrilling as away-ship work was at first, in the end Matt's found it gets a little dull a lot quick.

So Matt's learned to while away long nights in alien cities by pretending.

Each night of the four days he's been on Corev, for example, Matt's walked the city's waterfront, pretending some of the prettiest houses are his. Along the same boardwalk he's nodded placidly, pretending that he's the admiral just saluted by those Imperial soldiers. Mostly though, Matt pretends that Techie's beside him and they're exploring the city, finding the best places to kiss or cuddle, frot or maybe even fuck.

Matt doesn't have to do any of that tonight. Though his shuttle back to the _Finalizer_ isn't until morning, he's got his final night here booked up drum tight.

Matthew Kee's going to buy himself a man.

He grins and slouches low in his cantina chair, big hands wrapped round a Rancor Blood cocktail. Besotted as he is with his one true love, Mattie's always buying red things that remind him of his sweetheart's hair, blue things that could never hope to compete with his love's big bright eyes, or white things only nearly half so pretty as Techie's long pale limbs.

Tonight he's nursing his salty red drink and he's waiting in this dark cantina where he knows Sentients sell themselves to the off-worlders, he's settled in and he's waiting, waiting, waiting to buy.

Well, to _pretend_ to buy.

Though he's not in the market for those twin Twi'lek boys with their painted lekku, and he's not wanting that Hutt over there who keeps doing what looks like belching but which another Hutt seems to think is smiling, and—

"—is this taken seat?'"

Matt clutches his drink tighter and looks up. And up.

"What?"

The swaying C'husterian braids his middle arms together, points at the table's empty chair. "Said I, is this taken?"

Matt's a socially awkward man who often frowns too much, looms too large, or stays too quiet, so unsurprisingly he did little more than stammer as the C'huster began to sit uninvited. Given enough embarrassment rope, Matt probably would have ended up buying the stranger a drink.

Then something happened.

A swirl of skirts on the cantina dance floor caught Matt's eye.

Patterned with nova lilies, those skirts were filmy-thin and fluttery, so light they seemed to float. Beneath them was a pair of long Human legs, above, the bright red hair of his sweetheart, messily pinned with a half dozen sparkling clips. Matt's frown cleared and his stammer did too and he murmured, "Taken. Very, very…taken."

The alien braided two more arms together, looked around, then slid toward a raucous group who might want some xeno fun.

Forgetting he'd even been propositioned, Matt pushed his drink away and stared shamelessly at his pretty love in his pretty skirts.

At first Techie pretended not to notice. Then, as someone fed the jukebox a couple credits, a jangly song gave way to something with deep thudding bass and both men grinned to the familiar thrum of _Red Star._

It had been their first night off-ship together, maybe a year ago. They'd taken a room above a cantina like this one, _Red Star_ drifting up through creaking floor boards while they wrapped tight around each other, Techie rocking into Matt, both of them hard but neither of them urgent. They'd stayed that way for all the song's ten long minutes, lazy with wet kisses, indulgent with breathy moans.

Remembering that night Techie did now what he'd done then. He bit his lip and in the middle of the cantina's tiny dance floor he started to sway.

While the C'husterian escort wrapped four pliant arms around a tiny Takodanian, while the twin Twi'leks made out with each other as a Hutt paid to watch, and while a Chiss and her Human friends looked on, Galacian Asha'Techk started to dance.

Now here's the thing about Techie: He's shy about some things sometimes and other things other times, but the minute he's with his Mattie nothing else matters and Techie's bright mech eyes are blind to everyone else. So though he stood on the dance floor of a busy cantina full of strangers, Techie saw only the blond-haired man a half dozen feet in front of him and it was to him that Techie smiled, it was to him he turned his back, it was _for_ him he slid his hands down, down, down his narrow hips to his thighs, and then up, up, up raising thin skirts high, baring long, strong legs.

Legs he likes to wrap round Mattie, legs down which he loves feeling warm come drip-drip, legs that right now he parted slow as his skirts crept higher and higher and suddenly Mattie realized Gala wasn't stopping, up-up he tugged and up and…

Techie didn't have anything on under there.

Matthew Kee might have grunted then. He might have banged his fist on the table. He could very well have stood up and exclaimed.

Except he did none of these things. Instead Matt sat still as stone and hard as rock, mouth open and heart thudding so hard he could feel it in his ears and lub-dubbing deep between his legs.

And still up those skirts slid and up until Techie exposed the rest of himself, until he bared the full, ripe curves of his ass to the entire room.

In Matt's later embellishing of these moments, he sees himself on his knees behind Techie, tongue shoved in deep while Techie fucks himself on it to the song's slow rhythm. Other times he sees Gala sitting on one of the brightly lighted cantina tables, legs wide while Mattie sucks him off under his skirts. Sometimes he pulls away just in time for them to watch Gala come all over the dark-wood floor.

Later they'll share humid fantasies of tonight, fantasies where the Chiss woman rides Matt as Matt rides Techie. In some of the fantasies the C'husterian's soft, boneless limbs penetrate them, or they watch the purple-skinned Twi'lek boys take turns fucking each other, and always the cantina floor is messy and slick but now, now, _now,_ good god right now Gala's letting his skirts flutter down to his knees and Matt's going to breathe now, any moment, any—

—the Chiss slides her chair back, a silver credit chit in her hand and for a moment Matt absolutely panics because he doesn't have enough credits, then he remembers he doesn't have to.

He barely feels his feet cross the floor, hardly feels his legs moving, but Matt does feel a low spotlight warming the back of his neck and Techie's legs as they wrap around his waist. They're laughing low into each other's mouths, Techie licking and teasing him with what he'll do to Matt and for how much and how long, then a blast of alcohol-scented breath hits them and a short-tailed Hutt is crowding close on the dance floor, holding a couple gold-rimmed credits.

They smile at her and they wave and then they run out of the cantina, down to the waterfront, past grand houses, right on by admirals they don't have to salute because they're civvies, down, down, down to a cool red sea and there in the dark Matthew kisses Galacian, and Galacian cuddles Matthew, and after enough of that they lay down on the sand and frot for a good long while until Techie moans and moans, then grunts as he comes all over Matt's pants.

Afterward Techie quick-smart undoes those pants right there on the beach and Matt's shy too sometimes, but Techie spreads out skirts covered in pale orange and yellow nova lilies, he slots Matt's cock right along the crack of his ass, and Techie rocks.

He croons Mattie's name, he hums snatches of _Red Star,_ and when he knows Matt needs just a bit more help to get him past his shyness, Techie lifts his skirts high and Techie _moans._ Matt stills and one, two, three pulses later there's a perfect hot mess between them.

The tide tickles their legs and they laugh, while further up the beach, in a shadowy cove, the Chiss holds out her hand. Her friends drop credits into it.

She told them the Humans were going to fuck in public. She _told_ them.

Later, Techie will tell Mattie that they were watched. Right now he pretends he doesn't know. Techie's good at that, at pretending.

 _—_  
_Yep, jukebox is in the Star Wars wiki. Yep, I was surprised too. If you've not read any Techienician before, here's[a quick grounding](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/146854302379/clan-techie-matt-the-radar-techician) on who Techie and Matt are. But I can tell you that right here: They're two men besotted, willing and wanting and very wonderfully, very messily in love. P.S. If you like Kylux too, [here you go](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11067135/chapters/24679599)._


	2. The Gardener and the Priest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Priest or Religion:_
> 
> Once upon a time…
> 
> …when Matthew Kee went far, far away, Galacian Asha'Techk told his one true love a story.

"Rise my knight."

The dark woman rose, red leathers creaking. Shadows seemed to seep from the walls, darken both the throne room and the blood stains on the knight's supple armor. Each gave her the mien of a wraith. Or avenger.

She was that last, of course, a legend in her own lifetime, the sworn protector of her Priest-Queen. The knight had slain enemies of the realm for her holy sovereign, plundered treasures, brought peace through blood.

"Kiss me, my love."

Ah, but it was more than the knight about whom tales were told. The love of queen for her soldier was as legendary as that soldier's deeds. Their sanctified reign would—

"Gala—"

"Shhhh!"

—quell wars. It would—

"I—"

_"Shhhh!"_

—leave in place a myth of—

"You—"

"Shut up Mattie!"

Right. Look.

Matthew Kee's six feet four inches of muscle, frowns like the permanently-peeved, and has the silence of the menacing. But Matthew Kee is inclined toward none of these. What Matthew Kee _is_ inclined to is being bossed.

So when Gala pushes him down on their bed, sucking Matt's cock right on down to soothe their double-bad day, Matt lets himself be pushed. When Gala barks "sit and eat," after putting his favorite dinner on their tiny table, Matt does as he is told. And when Gala says, "you're beautiful Mattie you fucking take that back," well Matthew Kee takes his own insult back and believes his bossy baby, because Galacian Asha'Techk's love is fierce, it's foul-mouthed, but most of it is, to Matt, perfect.

_However._

Sometimes Matthew Kee is double-disinclined to be bossed. Like now. Right now.

"Gala. Sweetheart. Stop."

Sighing cranky, Techie paused his happy-place holo and frown-frown-frowned his _I'm listening_ face at Matt.

"This is the last time, baby, you know that. I won't take another off-ship assignment unless you have one, too. And I'll be gone just a single day for this one."

"And a half."

Matt sighed patient, went to his knees beside their bed, took his love's hand. "Barely a half."

Right. Look. Techie knew Matt wouldn't be gone long. And he knew it was the last time anyways. And they were both pfassking adults and…

Matt kissed Gala's shaking hand.

…and still none of that mattered to Techie's _chin_ which trembled, or to his eyes which went glassy…

Matt kissed Gala's palm.

…because every time Mattie went off-ship Techie's _bones_ remembered the years before, remembered a hollow kind of emptiness, and everything in his thin, sweet body _ached._

Matt whispered into his love's warm skin, "Do something for me baby?"

Techie wiped his nose on his shoulder and snuffled and nodded.

"I'll keep my private comm open. The whole time I'm gone. Talk to me?"

Gala's a pfassking adult, he is, so he'd damn well _be_ one, he would, in a second, in a few, when his voice came back and—but Mattie's comm chimed strident and he kissed Gala onetwothreefour times, tucked the blankets tight around his bed-nested sweetheart, whispered _love love love,_ then rose and was gone.

Techie's a grown man, yes, but grown men cry. And sometimes grown men sob as if their heart is breaking because the smart ones? The smart ones let themselves feel what they feel.

So Techie felt, and he felt some more, and kept on feeling until, exhausted, he managed to sleep away eight of the thirty hours Mattie would be gone.

When he woke just in time for his shift, to which he went in the same wrinkled clothes in which he'd slept, Techie lined up every single mindless chore he'd ignored for the last three months, and then Gala opened his private comm, he whispered _love love love,_ and _I'm sorry,_ and _forever ever ever_ and after very similar words were whispered back awhile, Techie said, "I'm ready."

Then Galacian Asha'Techk told Matthew Kee a story.

*

Once upon a time there was a red-haired priest. He was kind of thin and his hair was long and he was named Ash.

Ash was born to royalty, the third child of three children. _Being_ the third made Ash quite an unnecessary heir to the queen who reigned over the turbulent and war-mongering moon of Alsbreen. Out of a touch of kindness but mostly self-interest, the queen sent this extra child off to live on the monastery moon of Josted, long before he could ever know another, finer life.

So, a bandy-legged toddler fit for little more than pulling weeds in vast church gardens, Ash grew to manhood in the monastery, far from and ignorant of his clan and their endless quests for domain and power.

When he was thirty, long since grown tall and taken the vows that gave him a priest's bands and belts, Ash's family, ruthless decades in power, did a damned dumb thing.

They had a party. A _really_ big party.

Shout about it across the Outer Rim they did. Invited Sentients from lots of worlds they did. They pulled out all the stops did the monarch and her noble clan.

They _showed off._

This meant that the queen, her consort, and both their remaining children—a princess, a backup prince, and _their_ young children—sat themselves down in public, in the open, in opulence, in front of tens of thousands of beings.

Some of whom, it turned out, held _such_ a grudge.

After the wreckage of the Gymsnor-4 light freighter was cleared from the resulting crater, they managed to find _most_ of the royal family's body parts and all but three of the suicide sect that had killed them.

*

Matt paused fingers over the keyboard of a large radar array. After long seconds of continued silence he tapped his headset, just in time to hear a rain of tiny metal against large.

 _Ah._ He'd bet anything Gala had just dumped out that huge bin of little screws he obsessively kept, the whole bloody lot a mix of parts so miniscule that no one but a man with mech eyes, patience, and time could possibly separate one from the other.

Well, Gala always had the mech eyes. Today it seemed he finally had the patience. Time, too. A few more sounds—lining up smaller bins into which he'd separate the tiny parts—and Matt continued typing in array codes.

Gala continued to tell his story.

*

They tried to kill the new priest-king the day he arrived.

They tried the second day, too.

And the third, the fourth, and the fifth.

Before the sixth could come, Ash went into hiding deep in his dead family's vast estate and there he intended to stay. It would be so much easier this way, anyway. He could keep his holy vows, a stranger in the strange and violent land of his birth, neither needing nor using the power he now suddenly had over a population of millions.

It might have worked, too, except the Cabal Catcher changed all that.

From one end of the Outer Rim to the other that was the ridiculous name they gave the palace gardener, the big, yellow-haired man who caught the three surviving members of the murderous sect that had killed the queen and her family.

Except 'catch' was not really what Thew had done. That was the word the palace had given right after though, so catch was the word all the holo reports used.

No, instead of catching the fanatics intent on killing the last surviving royal, the big, quiet man in glasses, the gardener who had tended the children's garden and its dewy gigglebuds and moonflowers, its puff roses and sun blossoms for more than a dozen years, that man did something else to those three men coming to kill his new sovereign.

Before they could even set foot in the palace, Thew slaughtered them.

*

On a gantry overlooking the east-most radar arrays on Cordur station, Matthew Kee dropped his spanner.

On the tool's fifty-foot journey down, it hit struts, braces, and radar dishes before landing on shiny metal flooring with a loud clattering.

_"Mattie, are you okay?"_

From his perch between two dishes Mattie nodded to himself. Mattie was okay. Super okay. Surprised, but okay.

"Go on," he eventually breathed, pressing the comm bud deeper into his ear, "go go go."

*

How does a man thank a man for his life?

Can words be enough?

Can riches?

Can a _kiss?_

That was the mad thought making Ash's skin hot as the gardener stood in the too-bright throne room, covered in blood not his own.

A kiss, yes, that was the crazy thought running round Ash's head because. Because he'd talked to this sweetly gentle man for weeks and weeks already. He knew him more than he knew any of the people in this palace full of solemn-eyed strangers, all of whom looked away in deference as he approached. But Thew? Thew _smiled._

To be fair the man smiled always, not just when his king walked alone through the acres of gardens, trying to find his place in this new place, trying to find serenity but finding instead too much room and too many expectant gazes.

Then there was that day he walked slow in the sun and there was the gardener who talked to his gigglebuds and orange-face clock roses, who still tended a children's garden though there where no children around to love it any more. Ash saw the yellow-haired man smiling and so he smiled back. And so began a dozen days of smiles passed between them, then a dozen days of short greetings exchanged, and these soon enough turned to pauses for sharing a thought, which gave gazes the time to roam, which gave wishes time to—

"Leave."

The gardener startled. Then he started to leave.

Ash stumbled over words and then feet. "No I mean—" He rose from his fussy chair, fell against Thew. "—sorry, no. It's." Ash glared at the guards in the throne room as if it were they who were making a mess of this.

Then Ash did what no royal in this ridiculously large palace had ever done: He took Thew's arm and walked off with him.

In the hindsight of years some things about that day would grow fuzzy. Like how Ash made sure they were left alone, how they went from a busy palace to a quiet garden corner to overgrown greenery designed to provide shelter for palace brightbirds and Coruscant doves. Yet manage all that they did, until they pushed through shrubs and the soft red stems of new shoots, going deeper and further, until finally they came upon the only place Ash could truly hide.

His church.

Well it was his _now,_ though it had been built long before he'd been born. Intended more as an elaborate garden folly in a forgotten part of palace grounds—with its own little trees inside fed by a tiny summer creek running through—than an actual place of worship, it had nevertheless over the years become just that.

In the century it had stood tucked far back of the palace grounds Skakoan relics had found their way into the church, Wookiee too, though what Ash loved most were the statues of the Naboo moon goddess Shiraya, so it was to her pale blue altar that Ash tugged Thew, his big bloodied hand held tight inside the king's.

Then there in the gentle light of afternoon shadows and natural as breathing, the priest stripped gardener.

How does a man thank a man for his life?

Can words be enough?

"Thank you," Ash whispered, words gentle but hands rough, angry at buttons, furious with zippers, adamant that this man would never again wear these terrible clothes.

Can riches be enough?

Coruscant linens from this day forward, Ash decided. Soft-soft-soft as the small voice a big man used when he talked to his precious plants.

Can a _kiss?_

Good for nothing more than rags now, Ash dropped the last of Thew's clothes to the wood floor and without a thought he leaned forward, kissing what he'd uncovered: Pale skin, whole but dotted with bruises from his recent struggle though even these were faint, as if the blows had landed barely at all.

Ash took a knee, scooped up creek water, and he washed Thew's hands free of blood. He rose and washed Thew's shoulders, his neck, his arms, kissing each solid, beautiful, perfect place and was it any surprise when the small space filled with Ash's moans?

He didn't have time to reflect on that because the gardener—who'd said exactly nothing so far, a silence Ash had stupidly, _stupidly_ taken for consent—pressed his hands palm-flat against Ash's chest and said, "No."

 _No?_ Who says no to a king?

Ash couldn't say, because Ash _wasn't_ one, not really, not where it mattered—in his head and heart. He was a priest, a man who'd spent all the years he could remember giving everything and asking for little, Ash's life has been, in actual fact, an entire world of _no._ No you can not rest when your congregation needs you, no you can not turn away this penitent no matter how heinous their deed, no and no and no. Ash damn well _knows_ no.

Head bowed like a proper penitent who has realized himself unworthy of the risk this man had taken today, of the sacrifice he'd given of his body if not his blood.

They stayed this way the longest time and while Ash'd tell you a priest is awfully good at waiting, that penitents by nature must be patient, eventually he _did_ look up.

That's when Thew placed a gentle hand beneath his chin, ran his thumb over Ash's mouth. "Please my lord. Not in…not in _payment?"_

He's inclined to poetry, is the priest. In love with the lyrical, with metaphor and meter and sweet ways of saying simple things. While later in their lives he'll wax full with words like _my sun-haired prince_ , while later he'll praise the curve of a chest, the width of a waist, right now all he could do was shake his head and breathe _no, not that, not ever._

With a grin giddy Thew shifted, squatted. He slid a bare arm around Ash's back, another under his thighs, and he picked up his king.

Priests probably shouldn't say, "Holy fuck." Except maybe they should when it's _predictive._

Thew stood tall, held Ash close, and pressing his forehead to Ash's he asked, "Please?"

_Please can I…please will you?_

"Yes."

*

Techie grew aware of silence.

No, wrong. On the other end of the comm Techie grew aware of no _ruckus._ No engineer calling to another, no metal clattering or the click of a keyboard.

The only sound was Mattie's breathing.

"Where are you," Techie whispered.

Matthew Kee was in a church.

He was surrounded not by the deep shadows of an empty office, there was no desk edges or a chair as yet unused by what would be this new space station's commander. Matt opened his eyes and it was to a small folly, to a chapel washed in soft noon light, to a pale blue altar. In mind's eye a young branch poked through a graceful stone arch, gold leaves rustling soft. Summer insects chittered.

Matt burrowed his big body down into a creaky, stiff-backed chair. He drew his knees up to his chin, closed his eyes again, and for the next long little bit of his break, Matthew Kee took up their story.

*

Thew placed the priest on the altar. Careful, careful, as if he were candle-wax delicate, as if veneration would be paid with gentility.

Then he went to his knees and took Ash's foot in hand. He pulled laces free of eyelets until a soft boot slipped easily off. Did the same to the other. After, he lifted those feet to his mouth, one sole cupped in each big hand, kissing the tops of them, the toes of them, he pressed his lips to ankles, until _that_ proved ticklish and Ash laughed.

And wasn't that a revelation?

Because the laugh was a loud cackle, for real and for true. And it kept _going_ because Thew kept _kissing,_ darting pecks just above an ankle bone, below and around again and again, until Ash howled and twitched, entirely too ticklish and then Thew was standing between his legs and they weren't laughing anymore.

They _were_ smiling though.

That's how it had started, weeks ago. Matt smiling at this royal never reared for the purpose, this his new king with hair bright as an orange-face clock rose and eyes blue as the heart of a moon flower, long legs half-hid under fine silk-and-linen tunics. Legs now wrapped round Matt's thighs, bare feet running up and down his calves and again Matt whispered, "Please?"

Again the king answered _yes_ only it was by undoing his splendid tunic with its fine buttons—black pearls, glistening—and Matt looked _down._

Cause it's been weeks of smiles and words and knowing a king doesn't speak to a gardener but this king forgot what it was kings were meant to do and this gardener let him and for weeks they learned one another's faces and grew ever more curious about one another's bodies so, as the king bared his own chest, Matt helped slide blue-and-black linen away from white skin.

The physical matters. It isn't _all_ that matters, no, but beauty's a visceral thing, thrumming the heart faster, shallowing the breath. Or, here, causing a big man to whisper a small, "Oh."

Matt hoped there had been others in this man's life. Brother or sister priests sharing bare touches over long nights, loving all this soft, soft beauty, but Matt acted as if this was the first for them both, so he gentled Gala down along the altar, the blue Itauk marble blood warm on bare flesh.

Later he would make a proper worship of Gala's white skin and the places he could make it go pink. Cheeks and flat chest with his wide-mouthed kisses. Tight nipples and a ticklish stomach. In those future days he'd offer devotions to the curves of Gala's waist and sturdy thighs, compose hymns to the red hair under his arms and between his legs, fiery and fragrant with the smell of sex.

These exaltations were for the future, though, because Gala started twitching under Matt's fingers, then squirming then, shucking solemnity along with his trousers, he grunted and tugged until Matt crawled over him on the altar, each with their head between the other's legs.

Slinging his arm round Mattie's waist, Gala pulled his big body down-down-down, until his heavy cock touched Gala's tongue, then with a wriggle and a tilt, slid it deep into his own mouth.

Then Gala demanded Matt's motion with the steel of his skinny arms, he moaned his _yeses_ for every thrust, he eyed that ass rocking over him and knew he wanted to _know_ Matt there, taste him there, and don't think he didn't broadcast all of these desires with hot skin, with _keening_ round the cock in his mouth, with wide legs going wider, with a raw warm scent that before too long had Matt's cock coming.

Gala didn't know a body could go boneless and hard at the same time but as he felt his mouth fill with spit and come, he damn near melted in relief, yet his thighs went bow-string taut when Matt's mouth slid onto _him._ He sucked and sucked soft, then stroked with his hand, root to tip, again and more until Gala's arm _steeled_ tighter and in the wordless way of animals everywhere Matt read the signals and Matt bared his _teeth,_ which scraped absolutely positively _perfectly_ across Gala's cock and onetwothreefour more thrusts and hips twitched, stilled, and Gala spurted into Matt's mouth.

And…they breathed.

And breathed.

Shifted a little. Curled close. And Gala wondered, how does a man thank a man for his life?

Can words be enough?

Can riches?

Can a kiss?

Yes. Yes they can.

And so can giving your yellow-haired gardener a new title.

Consort.

Prince.

Husband.

*

Where in the story Ash had become Gala loving Matt who was Thew they didn't really know, but in the end the pretend names in their made-up story didn't matter, the _story_ did though, and always would.

The story of how two strangers in the strange land of a starship found one another with shy smiles and careful words, with steady touches and fierce hearts.

Such stories are religious things to those to who've prayed for them, they're the stuff of private myths, the story of beginnings, evers, always.

For Galacian and Matthew they're the story of a legend-worthy love, quiet, good.

Sacred.

_Theirs._

—  
_What we basically have here is Techie writing a self-insert genderswap AU for his favorite holo about the empress-priest and her leather-clad knight. So it's a fic writing fic. *Throws inception glitter* By the way and holy cripes, I just wanted to write a tiny bit of mildly-transgressive priest pornography, then made-up kingdom stuff accidentally happened._


	3. Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Nursing or Lactating:_
> 
> _Mine._ It can mean so many things.

Techie likes to touch Matt's chest. Like a babe in arms he'll sometimes grope at his sweetheart's expanse in the way of the happily entitled. _Mine,_ he paws, _give me._

Matt does because Matt _loves_ when Gala cups and kisses and comes on him. He loves the purr of _"So big Mattie,"_ adores the sound of a breath sucked through teeth when Techie's still curled up in his bed, watching Matt stretch a t-shirt over his chest.

So though they've been together only months yet, the chest thing, it's one of _their_ things. Which is by way of saying how they got here, curled together in Mattie's sick bed, Techie cupping his own chest, thumbs pushing his nipples up, crooning, "Suck them Mattie."

Matt's warm-skinned and sweaty with the last of the Kolik flu and though his fever broke and his joints ache less, his body is still tired, wanting comfort.

So Techie's here to comfort him, to feed him soup slow, pile his bed with blankets carried over days ago from his own quarters, and to comfort him with this, his body.

"Touch my tits," Techie whispered, voice thick, wriggling closer in the narrow bed. "They're warm." He rubbed a nipple against Mattie's nose and crooned. "'magine I had milk Mattie. Imagine my tits made milk."

"I bet it would be sweet," Matt whispered, latching on.

"Mmmmm. I'd feed you all the time. I would. I'd make milk so you could drink and drink." Techie held Matt's chin with one hand, stroked yellow bangs over Mattie's eyes with the other, a soft shelter. "I'd nurse you Mattie, any time you asked. You could make me lift my shirt up behind the bulkheads in sector eight or in the freshers." Techie pushed closer but his skin was on skin was already on Matt's skin everywhere. "You could put your head under my t-shirt and suck."

Twitching ticklish when Matt's hand settled on his ribs Techie said, "I'd make so much it'd drip down my chest and over my ribs. I'd have to come find you so you could lick it up."

Matt wasn't yet good at words like this, but he was good at _loving_ words like this, at grunting needy agreement, at little pokes of his pajama-clad cock against Techie's thigh.

"More," he murmured, pulling back as Gala shifted to give him more. Except Matt didn't take more. Instead he looked at the nipple he'd just released, looked long enough that Gala looked, too.

The tiny nub was hard, the skin around it swollen, and on a man narrow as Techie that puffy flesh looked voluptuous, _plentiful._ Matt sighed warm over it, stroked a fingertip across the tender skin.

Narrow sure, but Techie's not small, unmuscled yes but he's not weak. Of the two of them he's the one more protective and Galacian Asha'Techk knows down in his reedy-long bones that he'd do anything to keep Matthew Kee safe, he'd use teeth and nails in defense of him, hands and mouth in soothing him.

Or tit.

He crooned that blunt word into Mattie's hair, a sweet nothing, an offering. "I'd squeeze my tits until they leaked Mattie, until there was all the milk you wanted. Until you were full."

Moaning, Matt hooked his ankle round Gala's to draw that strong thigh tighter between his own. He wasn't going to get off like this, still too tired and muzzy, but he _wanted_ this, the pampering, the touches, Gala's impossible, sexy promise. He wanted to rub himself against his sweetheart and let everything just _feel_ good.

Mostly Matt wanted to imagine Techie doing it, making milk for him, feeding him and filling his belly.

Techie slid his index finger into Matt's mouth, pushed at his own nipple, as if he really could make his body let down milk, warm and wet. Mattie started sucking again and Techie closed his eyes.

 _Mine._ It can mean so many things. Mine to have, mine to take. Techie's good at having Mattie, taking him and his devotions, his kisses, his ass.

 _Mine_ means more than that though. To Techie it also means mine to hold and help. Mine to love. Mine, and mine, and mine to protect.

_Mine._

_—_  
_Just…leave me here. I'm fine. I'm just, just staring off into the middle distance thinking, all right? Just…it's good. It's good._


	4. Demon Princess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Food:_
> 
> Galacian Asha'Techk today learned a thing of great import. 
> 
> He learned that Matt, his pretty princess, usually so gentle-soft in their bed, kitten-sweet when stroked and praised and pampered, well that princess turns into a demonic little shit when he's hungry.

One can not ignore the demon princess when he hungers, Techie'll tell you that for free.

The thing is, Mattie's low-key most times. He usually hangs back, lingers, waits for a queue to thin or a group to break up, content to take his time getting or going or giving, but.

_But._

If Matt has missed a meal. If Matt has had to work through lunch. If Matt's woke late, gone past breakfast, found his belly bare of fats and proteins and carbohydrates, well.

_Well._

Let's just say Galacian Asha'Techk today learned that his pretty princess, usually so gentle-soft in their bed, kitten-sweet when stroked and praised and pampered, well that princess turns into a demonic little _shit_ when he's hungry.

To be fair, Matt knows this about himself and Matt does his best to avoid it, with quick snacks tucked away in his locker and quarters, but this morning he's run out of both time and temper and there's a reason for that.

Techie's the reason for that. Techie and his still-developing knowledge of when bossy is sexy, and when bossy is just…bossy.

The thing is, they'd curled close all night in Gala's single bed. First there'd been long, lazy sex, then even longer conversations. They talked about everything, they did. From first jobs to first kisses to favourite foods. Gala admitted to a love of oraseesh. He also admitted to an allergy to oraseesh.

"What happens if you eat it," Matt asked, already knowing the answer because, well, the two of them go there. There being to all the awkward and embarrassing places most people don't.

So when Techie said, "It gives me the worst diarrhea _ever,"_ Matt nodded and made a mental note to pick up hydration drinks from stores, absolutely sure oraseesh would appear on the mess hall menu within a week if he didn't.

They'd passed the whole night that way, dozing and chatting, sharing _firsts_ and _favourites,_ _worsts_ and _weirds,_ until they'd just tangled together and fallen asleep.

Which is why when Matt wakes now it's with a groan and quick whisper of "Hey Gala, wake up, you gotta let go or I'll be late."

Techie sighs and squirms and tight-curls closer. "No Mattie. Stay with me," he says in that sexy voice, the one that makes Mattie call him beautiful bossy baby.

Except it's _the wrong time for that._

Because already Matt feels like shit. Dinner last night had been handfuls of dry cereal eaten in bed long after a pinch had led to a tickle, a tickle to a touch, and now here they are, Matt scratching the remnants of come on his belly and trying to roll out of bed but finding Techie wrapping his arms tighter. Matt doesn't want to, he really doesn't, but he has to, he does, so he says very seriously, "No fooling baby, my boss is going to yell if I'm late, you have to let me go."

Techie would have let go, he told himself later he would have if he'd really realised, if he hadn't been so sated and sleepy, he'd have heard the graveness in Matt's voice, but he _didn't_ so he giggled and held tighter, saying, "You listen to me Mattie—"

But Mattie doesn't listen, he reaches behind his neck, clutches Gala's wrists, and says low and slow: "Let. Go. Now."

Techie does quick-smart and that's when he meets the demon princess.

First there's the princess when Matt murmurs, "Sorry, I just gotta eat baby or I'll be sick" then rolls out of bed, standing tall, naked and pink-skinned, his hair wild and gold as any crown…then, lightheaded, Matt stumbles, stubs his toe on his own boot and suddenly the princess _hisses,_ he _spits,_ he _growls,_ a demon furious.

It gets worse.

Matt swears as he trips twice more trying to get his trousers on. He gnashes his teeth when he gets his t-shirt twisted round. Then his socks, his kriffing _socks,_ he can't find his socks and that's the final straw because Matt spreads his arms in frustration and the brimstone in his eyes oh my there, then, right then is when Techie sees the full flower of his demon princess.

And gets himself a bit of a stiffy. (Except it's _the wrong time for that.)_

So with a chubby Galacian Asha'Techk bounds from bed and sprints to his tiny kitchen. There he coats black butter bread with bluefruit jam and tekka nuts, smacks the sandwich together then stands in his own open doorway buck naked while Mattie—socks found, boots tied—takes two strides, leans close, and kisses his baby for one long, sweet second.

After, Techie pushes the sandwich into Matt's mouth, whispers "Fly Mattie fly mwa mwa mwa," and with a demonic little growl, Matt the demon radar princess grins at the only boss that _really_ matters…and Mattie flies.

—  
 _So "one can not ignore the demon princess when she hungers" came from wonderful Tony in reference to his teeny fearsome eighteen-year-old cat, thank you Tony._


	5. Succulent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Body Worship_
> 
> Like anyone besotted, Matt thinks Gala's beautiful today, right now. If tomorrow he changes, then tomorrow's a different beauty Matt loves. 
> 
> Well…it's tomorrow now, isn't it? 
> 
> *

When Techie accepted the one-year post down on Tepasi he and Mattie thought it'd be great to be on-planet awhile. They met on the _Accord,_ wooed one another in her hot little server rooms, her mess halls, up on the gantries over the gardens and engines. Technicians both, Matthew Kee and Galacian Asha'Techk knew the two-mile maze of that starship's durasteel corridors back to front, up and down. It was home and they loved it.

But an entire planet to explore together? What adventures might they have in Tepasi's forests and spaceports? When Techie dithered about accepting the position, Matt wooed him with promises of wooing all over again. Married three years didn't mean you couldn't take your love down to one of the glow seas and watch his pretty naked body be limned bright with the famous bioluminescent fish. Or eat new foods and drink new drinks. Or go to one of the xeno cantinas together and find playmates.

Right. So. Yes.

All those things happened when Techie finally accepted the assignment, they did. Matt and Techie explored forests and spaceports and beaches like _that_ was one of their jobs. They stood on overlooks and watched winds set treetops to swaying. They swam in glow seas and watched curious green-lit fish nibble their fingers and naked cocks. They played the royalty-spotting game everyone seemed so keen on.

(They for sure saw one of the crown princes being buggered on the sand of their favourite secluded cove. They didn't tell anyone about that or about the three Sentients he was with—they didn't even recognise the race of one of them—and if they go back sometimes and kind of a little bit accidentally watch what happens fairly frequently on that tiny moonlit beach, well that is entirely no one's business but their own.)

Right. So. Yes. Everything was fantastic. Matt loved his new assignment, working with some bleeding edge equipment, and Techie had a ton of new things to learn.

Which.

Was.

A.

Problem.

Because those first weeks Gala was so wound up by his new responsibilities that he over-compensated in every way possible, arriving early to work, leaving late, refusing to delegate even the smallest responsibilities.

And so when he was home in their little company-assigned bungalow?

Techie stress-paced. Stress-argued. Stress-cried. Stress-ate. And after all that he stress-apologised while crying or pacing or eating.

Fortunately, after a few months of disaster failing to strike, Techie got better about it all. Matt's relentless encouragement and his own flourishing capabilities mostly calmed him down. So Gala and Matt got around to more exploring, to going further afield to see fine palaces and castles and glass lakes. They had a weeks' long dalliance with a visiting Tal-le-Broot who adored their pair-bond, said she could smell their devotion on their skins and it made them a dancing fire among a hundred spent coals.

And the thing about that? The thing about _that?_ Matt thought so too.

At first.

He thought Reve's wanting them made _him_ want more too, but the thing is this. After she'd gone back to her ship and her command, Matt still felt it, and _it_ was an intensity of desire for Gala that reminded him of when they were still so new to one another that their hands shook when they touched bare skin.

Here on Tepasi he felt a little like that again, shaky when he rutted between Gala's thighs, when he straddled his hips to ride hard, when Gala sat on his face and Matt _sucked_ and—

—ah.

Matt eventually realised what each of these particular things had in common.

Techie's new belly.

A tiny precious pooch that appeared over the weeks and months because, though the tears and arguments and pacing were now rare, Gala still sublimated stress with the treats for which their new city of Arepp was justifiably famous.

Berry cream pastries with sweet caff, butter-broth stew with custard bread, syrup-thick fruit ciders Techie loved to lap from the small of Matt's back.

Matt learned that he loved watching that succulent little pillow move when Gala straddled his face, loved watching the flesh dimple when his thumbs or cock pressed soft against it, loved feeling it give when sliding his hand up under Techie's shirt at the park while they queued for another glisten cone.

Depending on his mood Gala cared about that pooch and didn't care, pushed Matt's hand away or placed it solid on the swell of flesh, grumbled when his love crooned sweetly at the plumpness or grinned and stroked it and demanded kisses for "my zoochberry baby."

Like anyone besotted, Matt thinks Gala's beautiful today, right now. If tomorrow he changes, then tomorrow's a different beauty Matt loves. A form of worship asking for no greater benediction than being allowed to love.

So today, right now, it's a holiday and soon Matt and Techie will join the rest of the city for the return of the Areppian fireflies, thousands of Sentients watching in awe as the night sky lights up with millions of bright little bugs flashing pink and green and yellow.

The sun won't be down for another couple hours though, so now, right now, Gala leans back on his palm, back arched so Matt can rut against the swell of his belly, and he presses his hand down atop his sweetheart's cock so Mattie'll keep making those pfassking gorgeous "ah ah ah" sounds.

He drip-drip-drips precome does Matt, making Gala's belly messy-slick and Gala's tongue _itch._ He wants to lick up the mess, the wet-salt thick of it, and though Gala wants to stay still so Matt can keep rutting, he really does, it turns out he's already bent over, mouth open for Matt's cock before he realises what he's doing and that's Mattie damn well _done._

His bendy flower stem boy, oh god Matt can barely bear it when he _does_ that, when he folds himself over to suck or rub or swallow and though Matt rarely gets off this way he does now, hot spurts smearing all over Gala's soft flesh.

This sticky mess is their mutual worship, a bawdy sacrament loud with giggles and complaints—"my mouth Mattie! you missed my _mouth!"—_ with smears of come in places come ought not to be. Matt'll notice flakes of it under his fingernails later when he scratches his chest, he'll see it streaked up the side of Gala's neck as he tilts his head back to watch the tiny lights of millions upon millions of fireflies bobbing overhead.

And he'll feel it when he holds his wriggling baby against his chest, fingers laced over Gala's soft sweet belly as they sit in the dark, watching tiny pink and green and yellow lights settle over Arepp's fern lakes or head toward her forests, there to settle like tiny stars awhile, until it's time to migrate again and breed.

Just like Gala and Matt. Yes, just like Techie and his Mattie.

—  
_So this series was meant to be finished in a month. Ha ha ha. *cough* Well finished I hope it will be so here's another chapter on my way toward that goal. Please let me know what you think of Techie and Mattie's body worship, do please. P.S. Here's my tweak of a[firefly image](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/175780808864/fic-succulent-body-worship-like-anyone-besotted) so as to make Areppian firefly pinks and greens, too._


End file.
